


Old Magic

by SnowyWolff



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Magic, Nationverse, Prompt Fic, Spell Failure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 12:49:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15267855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowyWolff/pseuds/SnowyWolff
Summary: "Normally, Romania would have swept him in a hug already, dragged him to the kitchen and pulled out his tarot deck."





	Old Magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HaniBani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaniBani/gifts).



> **Prompt:** How do you feel about some RoBul? :D  <3 RoBul and a spell gone wrong!

It worries Bulgaria slightly when he finds the door to Romania’s house partially open. Pushing it further until it hits the wall with a dull thud, he peers into the dark hallway. The permeating quiet is frankly alarming.

Normally, Romania would have swept him in a hug already, dragged him to the kitchen and pulled out his tarot deck.

Maybe, Bulgaria tries to rationalize. Maybe he's just gone to the store quickly. Maybe he has been called in for some meeting. Maybe he is trying to be more like the Italy brothers again and is taking a siesta somewhere.

Yet, his call is left unanswered, so it cannot be the last one. And as he hangs his coat, he notices that Romania’s thick wool coat rests on a clothes hanger as well. So not out then either.

Walking quietly, he slides his hand along the wall, waiting for when it hits the light switch. It clicks on, showcasing nothing out of order. He blinks, eyes adjusting to the light and he turns inside the kitchen. Nothing there either.

He purses his lips, gently tapping his fingers against the wooden table. There shouldn't be something so worrisome about a quiet house, but…

In five large strides he's at the door that leads toward the basement. He thuds down the stairs, flicks on the light switch and stares at the mess of bottles and sprigs and herbs leading up to the giant kettle in the middle of the room.

The fire is off, but there is the faint smell of burnt cat. Right, so Romania has been messing around with some archaic spells from ancient books again. Nothing good ever came from that.

There are only so many places Romania could hide down here, but after opening up all the cupboards and glancing behind dark spaces, Bulgaria is still left with nothing.

He scratches his head, then trudges back up the stairs. Closing the door behind him, he looks out toward the garden, but finds only withering daisies. The living room is equally empty and eventually he climbs the stairs to the small hallway that leads to the study and bedroom.

Romania only has the one bedroom, so whenever he has a guest sleeping over, he childishly procures another mattress for them to sleep on the floor complete with pillow fights if he feels like it. Not that he still has to for Bulgaria. Sharing the bed suits him just fine (though Romania can never quite let the pillow fights go).

Up here, Bulgaria finally hears the whimpers and he skips the study in favour of the bedroom. He jiggles the knob, finding the door locked.

“Romania?”

The whimpering stops and Bulgaria presses his ear against the door to hear the faint noise of someone trying to stifle themselves.

“Hey,” Bulgaria continues softly. “Will you open the door?”

He listens and it almost sounds as if Romania has stopped breathing altogether on the other side. Then, very softly, “Please go away.”

Bulgaria blinks. He can hear the tears that stain Romania’s words, but he knows that Romania wants him to pretend they don't exist. He is never one to push, but…

“I'm not leaving,” he says, but he does let his hand slide from the knob. “I'm going to make you lunch and I'll bring it up here in an hour. I'll find this door unlocked and you'll eat. We don’t have to talk, but we can if you want. Understand?”

There is a quiet noise of acceptance on the other side of the door and Bulgaria nods, striding down the stairs.

The fridge reveals more potion ingredients than actual human food, so he trudges out the door, shoes sinking in slush. The store is a ten-minute walk away and Bulgaria manages to hand over the money with only a slight grimace.

Once back at Romania’s home, there has been no movement from upstairs, but Bulgaria expected as much. He makes a simple _ovcharska_ salad, arranges it on a plate, cleans the kitchen and on the ding of the hour, makes his way upstairs.

He knocks and turns the knob. The door opens with a creak, revealing nothing really. Darkness and a heap of blankets on the bed. There's no sound either and Bulgaria keeps it that way.

He silently walks toward the bed after flicking on the light switch and sits carefully on the edge. Placing the plate on his lap, he touches the lump.

“Lunch,” he announces, even if he really doesn't need to.

There's a muffled noise from underneath the blanket pile and an arm appears, clad in a long sweater and glove. Bulgaria watches it pat around, as if hoping to snatch some food into the depths of a lair.

Bulgaria sighs and places his hand on top of Romania’s.

There's a squeak, but Bulgaria doesn't let go as the hand tries to retreat.

“Romania,” he says and he hopes the smile comes through his voice. “It's okay. Whatever it is. Come out and have something to eat.”

Romania murmurs something and Bulgaria has to lean over and ask him twice what it was.

“No. It went wrong,” Romania says loudly, a pout evident.

Bulgaria pauses. “It” clearly means a spell and if it went wrong, a myriad of things could have happened. The last time Romania had refused to leave his room had been due to a particularly nasty case of measles.

Placing the plate on the bedside table, Bulgaria moved to lie on the bed, patting along the bedding until he found what he believed to be Romania’s head. Or so he hoped anyway. He gave it an encouraging kiss.

“Please?”

A sigh, deep and heavy and exaggerated, followed soon by a hand appearing to pinch Bulgaria’s side. Then there is a shift in the pile and slowly Romania sits up. As some blankets slip away and off the bed, he keeps one around him like a hood, shielding his face from the light.

Bulgaria sees enough though and laughs.

Romania whines as Bulgaria brushes the frizz from his eyes, cupping his cheek and tilting his head. Not only has Romania hair become some frizzy grey lion’s mane, he had aged approximately sixty years in physical age.

“What were you even _trying_ to accomplish here?” Bulgaria asks as he hands the plate to Romania.

Romania moves the olives around with his fork, pursing his lips. “Well, the Italies have that curl, right? So I tried to give myself one because I _am_ an heir of Rome, but that kind of blew up in my face and I don't understand why I look this old, but—!” And he takes a bite of egg, pointing his fork at Bulgaria in familiar optimism after. “Now that you're here, you can help me downstairs because it took me an hour to get up here. The sooner I'm back in the basement, the sooner we can figure out how to turn me back.”

Bulgaria nods, not surprised by Romania’s quick turnaround. He waits until Romania finishes the plate before he wraps an arm around him and hauls him to his feet. The trip downstairs is precarious and they have to pause multiple times because Romania’s legs “aren't what they used to be, are they, Bulgaria?”

Romania laughs at his own joke and Bulgaria assumes the worst anxiety is gone. Romania always becomes remarkably downtrodden when a spells goes awry, but Bulgaria knows by now how to draw him back out.

When they reach the bottom of the basement stairs, Romania hobbles toward the kettle on his own, telling Bulgaria to fetch this and that. It takes a bit of experimentation and three thick volumes to find something that reverses the spell and when Romania collapses to the floor in a puff of smoke, hours have passed.

Romania touches his own face, squeezes his cheeks and he laughs and cheers for a spell done well (ignoring that it's after a spell gone wrong). He jumps up and pulls Bulgaria in a hug, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

“You know, I think I've developed a new respect for the elderly,” Romania says as they climb the stairs, throwing a grin across his shoulder. “My back felt as if it would fold in on itself.”

Bulgaria smiles, taking the steps by two so he could press Romania against the railing before they would emerge in the kitchen.

Romania wraps his arms around his neck and kisses him. Grinning cheekily, he breaks it shortly, probably to make some other joke on the perks of being young, but Bulgaria doesn't let him. Romania tilts his head back in the kiss, opening his mouth eagerly.

They don't stop until Romania almost slips down the stairs and he drags Bulgaria all the way back up to his bedroom with a smile and a wink. They fall on the bed in a tangle of limbs and don't leave it until late in the night, when their stomachs rumble with hunger.

It's over _tochitur_ _ă_ and candlelight that Romania finally procures his tarot cards and reads Bulgaria’s fortune.

It changes occasionally, and it worries Bulgaria slightly whenever his country’s wellbeing is mentioned, but one card is steadfastly the same and has been for centuries. It makes Romania’s eyes shine when he speaks of that card, of its meaning of eternal love, and Bulgaria wouldn’t miss it for the world.

**Author's Note:**

> these two are a struggle to get a hold of, man
> 
> Comments appreciated :D


End file.
